


Silent Stars Go By

by lonelywalker



Category: Smallville
Genre: AU, Christmas, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-18
Updated: 2011-04-18
Packaged: 2017-10-18 08:21:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/186871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonelywalker/pseuds/lonelywalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One boy lives. Another dies. Christmas Eve in Smallville, more than ten years after the meteor shower.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silent Stars Go By

_O little town…_

The snow around Smallville has a faint blue tint to it this Christmas Eve, as if an impish prankster has simply smushed up blueberry popsicles and piled them up around town, blocking roads, twinkling prettily on fir trees, and sparking off a thousand elementary school snowball fights. Even though Smallville is barely two hours’ drive from Metropolis – _if_ the traffic is bad – there’s a world of a difference between this pristine landscape and the dirty snow of a city winter.

Lex parks the silver Mercedes with better-than-usual precision at the top of the gravel driveway, and gives his passenger an encouraging thump on the thigh. “We’re here.”

They could hardly miss it. It’s not as if the Kansan landscape is littered with Scottish castles. Still, Julian, hands pulled up into the sleeves of his school blazer in an attempt to keep warm, seems doubtful as he looks up from scribbling notes in his journal. “Are you _sure_ this is it?”

Even taking into account the past three months’ hard labor at a elite boarding school which still requires students to learn Latin and Classical Greek alongside algebra and Milton, he’s usually a little more enthusiastic than this. Lex snaps off his seatbelt, silently hoping that this uncharacteristic reluctance doesn’t mark the onset of puberty. Julian’s enough of a handful without adding a volatile cocktail of teenage hormones to the mix. He turns around in his seat, even putting one foot up on the immaculate cream leather. “You’ll love it. It’s a real castle. Dad had it shipped over from Scotland…”

“…brick by brick,” Julian repeats dully. “Yeah.” He huffs a breath onto the window, draws a fairly cynical smiley face on the glass, and peers out into the darkness beyond. “Are there wolves out here?”

Lex raises his eyebrows, for a moment actually trying to think of the correct answer, but… He grins. “Tons.”

“Awesome,” Julian says, and gets out of the car.

Whatever he has in his schoolbags, Lex almost pulls a muscle trying to dislodge them from the trunk, and Julian’s bent double carrying the load on his back up to the front door. Lex thinks of pointing out that they have people for that, here, but wherever those people are, they’re hardly eager to leap out into a freezing winter evening to help. Lex hefts his bag onto his shoulder too, and follows. “What, did Dad give you sixteen copies of _The Art of War_ to lug around?”

“ _The Will to Power_ ,” Julian gasps, and almost falls flat on his face as the front door opens just as he had been about to put his shoulder to it. He looks up as the bag is effortlessly tugged from his shoulder. “Dad.”

Their father, seemingly fresh from his Metropolis office, regards the two boys with a quizzical eye. “You’re late,” Lionel says, surveying the scene with a sense of quiet detachment. “I even gave you a _map_ , Lex.”

Lex is on the point of explaining, very thoroughly and logically, that he also has an advanced GPS system in his car, but that neither of them had been any help at all when it came to navigating the maze of back roads in rural Kansas. However, he only gets out a “Well,” before Julian butts in: “There was a farm! A nice lady gave us cookies.”

“Did she now?” Lionel ruffles Julian’s hair, and steers him inside the house, still carrying his bag for him. “I hope you didn’t spoil your appetite.”

***

It’s quiet out here on the farm, almost eerily so some nights, when snow blankets the fields, muffling the air. The previous evening, she had stood out on the porch watching snowflakes fall, drifting down through shafts of light cast from the barn and the house. It had been cold, but it’s never very warm anywhere on the farm at this time of year. She had ventured outside for the beauty of it, the flickers of romance on an otherwise empty winter night, but she’d stayed to see how long it might take for Jonathan to join her, begging her to come back to the fire.

Smallville had held such hope for her only a few years ago, when she had rejected the sophisticated cosmopolitan world of her friends and parents for a freedom she’d always dreamed of – freedom from _expectations_ , more than anything. It had only taken her a few days to realize that her own expectations were the hardest to dismiss.

It’s the most natural thing in the world, what their bodies, _her_ body, is designed to do. She had wanted a baby. A whole family, filling up this old farmhouse with love and laughter and warmth. And she had failed. She’s empty, barren, alone even with her husband next to her, his arms wrapped tight around her. There are some things, some needs, that brook no substitutes.

They’d thought of adopting, particularly after the meteor shower. It had broken her heart to think of tiny Lana never knowing her parents, and so many others put in the same position – orphans, children and teenagers who had lost a parent or sibling. The hospitals for the entire area, all the way to Metropolis, had been jammed with patients for weeks. Some would never recover.

The sky isn’t meant to fall in this part of the world. The calmness had been part of what she’d loved about the place. Nothing unexpected ever happened in Smallville, Kansas. The social calendar today is the same as it has been for fifty years, since Jonathan’s parents had gone to the same dances and farmers’ markets and town hall meetings. But Martha had brought the unexpected with her: a city girl on a rural farm, an inability to conceive and, finally, death from on high.

It’s by no means her fault. How could she have had any effect on an astrological phenomenon barely understood by scientists? But she had wished for a child, for new life, only minutes before… and chaos and death had been given to her instead.

A car had been by here minutes ago – far too expensive a model for locals, and she had recognized Lex Luthor’s face from the newspaper. He hadn’t remembered her, of course. He had been unconscious the last time she had seen him, such a frail boy of eight or nine, cradled in his father’s arms in the wake of the meteor shower. And that had to be his brother next to him with the mop of brown hair, fiddling with the radio, looking uncomfortable in his school uniform. Such good-looking, happy boys, even with the a wide gap in their ages. Perhaps the younger one had been an accident – a happy accident, of course, although their mother hadn’t lived long afterwards. Such a sad tale. Martha had given them both gingerbread cookies hot from the oven and tried not to be too envious of these bright young lives on a dark winter night.

***

Two pairs of green eyes are staring at an equally green fir tree which seems to have spontaneously sprouted in the library, complete with tinsel, sparkling lights, and a stoic-looking angel on top.

“What’s this?” Julian demands, prodding a colorfully-wrapped box with the toe of his Converse All Stars sneaker. He’d changed out of his school uniform in record time, and set about joining Lex in exploring the place from top to bottom as if they were likely to uncover a few heretofore undiscovered Celtic relics if only they looked hard enough. Their father’s collection of medieval weaponry had taken up a good twenty minutes, but this is the most interesting – and puzzling – discovery of all.

Lex, ever the big brother, decides to take the superior stance while he leafs through a dog-eared copy of the _Torch_ , the local school newspaper. Apparently, the previous week’s Yule Ball had been a resounding success. “It’s a Christmas tree, doofus.”

“Dad doesn’t celebrate Christmas,” Julian says with certainty. “Maybe the staff put it here.” He crouches down to investigate the boxes, to see if they’re just props, or possibly ticking time bombs. He picks up one, shakes it, puts his ear to it and listens.

“This one says ‘To Julian’,” Lex points out. “And if that was breakable…”

“It sounds like a book,” Julian concludes. “Probably Churchill’s memoirs or something.”

“Much too contemporary.” With a far more thorough knowledge of their father’s gift-giving tendencies, Lex feels reasonably sure that it’s more likely to be a tome on Spartan warrior-training, or a treatise examining the development of naval strategy in the ancient world. Either of which would make excellent fuel for the raging fire on the other side of the room.

Julian sits down beside the tree with a thump and a clattering of limbs. “This is _weird_ ,” he declares with pre-pubescent conviction. “Is Dad okay?”

This is one of the few questions guaranteed to stump his brother. What, exactly, might constitute Lionel Luthor, CEO of the largest corporation in Kansas, one of the world’s richest men, being ‘okay’? Lex shrugs. “He seems the same.”

“Oh.” Julian picks at the edge of the tape holding closed one end of the wrapping paper. “What was it like… when Mom was alive?”

Lex carefully removes the present from his grip, and puts it back underneath the tree. “Come on. Let’s get a drink, and I’ll tell you about it. I think there’s eggnog.”

***

There is no Christmas in the land of beautiful dreams. Iron gates deny admittance to festive cheer, and the half-hearted decorations in the common rooms seem far more wrenching than even bare walls could possibly be. The radio is tuned to a resoundingly bubbly station, and, outside, searchlights banish any suggestion of cozy winter nights from the grounds. This holiday season is just like any other at Belle Reve: sterile, bright, and carried out behind bars.

“ _Green_ jello?” A plastic fork, one of its legs already broken, is being stabbed into a plate of the stuff so thick it might as well be rubber. “Why green? That can’t be healthy.”

Chloe is leaning back in her chair, regarding the static on a distant television set with weary longing. “Everything green is healthy, Lois. You should know that.”

“Well, jello isn’t _meant_ to be healthy.” Lois frowns at the plate, as if it has personally insulted her sensibilities, and pushes it back. “God. I thought this place was supposed to encourage a positive attitude. I’ve been here five minutes and I’m trying to figure out how to hang myself with my shoelaces.”

The two of them earn a reprimanding stare from one of the female orderlies. Lois only shuffles her chair closer. “Okay, so the moment I get back to Metropolis I’m mailing you Twinkies and Red Bull, but this place _is_ helping you, isn’t it?”

Chloe regards her quizzically. “Do you mean, do I admit that I’m crazy? Of course not. I’m just as sane as the next person.”

The next person, it seems, is a young man with a partially-shaved head who is busy drawing concentric circles with a bubblegum-blue crayon. Lois plants her elbows on the table. “Look, cuz, we’ve both seen all the movies where the nutcase swears to god he’s completely sane. But, seriously, mutant teenagers? Glowing green rocks from Mars? People _died_ , Chloe. The General had to call in a lot of favors to get you in here and not the local penitentiary. Your hair would really clash with those fetching orange jumpsuits.”

Chloe, too, leans in closer, her expression serious. “I know it sounds crazy. But you have to look at the facts. How many strange and unexplained incidents have there been since the meteor shower? How many student deaths? Bizarre medical cases? LuthorCorp tested those rocks. They found that they weren’t from this planet.”

“Yeah, right, LuthorCorp. That’s your answer,” Lois says triumphantly. “I’ve done my research. Lionel Luthor bought the Ross plant on the day of the meteor shower, and they’ve been pumping weird fertilizers into the air and water ever since. We probably have three-headed fish or something. But, you know what, that sort of stuff means you should sue. Not go running around the school with a fire axe.”

“Sometimes the options you have when you’re confronted with a… an ice monster, or a shapeshifter, or someone who can start fires with their minds aren’t exactly sane.”

Lois, to her credit, doesn’t fire back any outraged or witty reply. But she does glance around the room before drawing even closer to her cousin. “Chloe, it’s been six months. Do you really want to be in here next Christmas? You need to get with the program. Get… rehabilitated or whatever they need you to do so you can get out of here and go to college and put it all behind you. You’re a good writer. At least, I thought you were when you sent me that school rag of yours. You’re not a hero. You’re definitely not an alien-hunter. So just… be normal, okay? Or try.”

Chloe meets her stare. The night is getting darker, the room colder. She snatches the broken fork up from the plate, regarding the jello with a critical eye. “I still say this is people.”

***

“Julian? What are you doing there, son?”

He’s perched on the piano stool in the library, toes scuffing the floor as he picks out notes around middle C, trying to remember simple tunes from long ago, from the days before both he and his father had decided that he had no musical talent whatsoever. He swings around as soon as Lionel speaks, however, startled into getting up immediately, in the expectation that he’s doing something wrong.

Growing up in their city house had been an experience marked largely by how unsuitable the place was for a child of any sort. He had quickly learned that his friends were the people who would swiftly yank him away from sharp objects, or deftly catch priceless statues in mid-air before they had the chance to shatter on the uncarpeted floor. Slightly older, he had studied the art of staying out of his father’s way, sloping off into shadows armed with Von Clausewitz or some of Lex’s painstakingly accurate toy soldiers.

“Lex had a phonecall.” The _sir_ goes unsaid, but it’s generally there in his tone, in the way the other words never seem to complete the sentence. But the expected suggestion that he run along elsewhere to play or eat or sleep or study never comes, and he’s left standing there, regarding his father with a sort of wary suspicion that he might actually need to make conversation. “Did you… Um. The tree’s very… nice.”

Lionel turns and looks at it as if he had never stopped to contemplate it before, as if it were as much a permanent fixture of the place as the stained glass windows, or the battleaxe hung over the door. “Yes,” he says, and Julian, his weight shifting from foot to foot, has the impression that, even now, he’s barely seeing it. “I hope that you didn’t mind my request to spend Christmas here this year. I know your school has always made you welcome in the past.”

Julian attempts a smile. “They have _amazing_ pumpkin pie. But it’s okay, Dad. I wanted to be here. I thought it was cool that you asked.”

The thought had occurred to him, when they’d talked by phone weeks before, that the request had been particularly ominous. Christmas has always been overshadowed with the faint touch of death in the Luthor household, and Julian had taken to wondering what terminal disease their father must have, to summon both of his sons to a festive exile in Smallville, of all places.

“Your mother would have loved to be here,” Lionel says, hands in pockets, looking out at the faint drift of snow in the air beyond the mansion’s windows. “The holidays were always her time… Our time, when she could tear me away from work. Lex should tell you. We had fun, once. We truly did.”

“He told me.” Julian’s voice is an unintentional whisper as he moves closer, half-wishing he could hold his father’s hand. “Dad. Are you… is everything okay?”

Lionel glances over at him, and the hand comes out of his pocket, rests against the back of Julian’s neck. “Everything’s fine. I only wanted you to know, son, that things may not be picture perfect in our family, but… Well. They would be very much different without you.” He musses Julian’s hair again, and his smile is more than a little infectious. “Come on. Let’s find out what your brother’s up to.”

Julian grins.

***

The school has been closed since the weekend, pipes frozen solid, determinedly non-specific holiday decorations already peeling from the walls as gusts of air shoot in through gaps in window-frames and chill the room to a temperature somewhere below freezing. Despite the lack of comfort, however, it’s relatively easy for the determined to gain access, even without tripping alarms or summoning the local police. It’s rarely expected for students to break _into_ school, after all.

“The generator’s working, finally,” Whitney Fordman says, breathing hot air onto chapped fingers as he ducks into the _Torch_ office. The base of the school newspaper is no warmer than the rest of the building, and it’s too risky to switch on any lights, but they can at least use the computers. The _Torch_ is also a relatively defendable space, and far less public than either of the town’s coffee houses.

Lana nods, opening her folder and trying to arrange a collection of newspaper clippings, Polaroid photographs, and hastily-scribbled notes. “You’d hope that this town would at least quiet down for Christmas.”

“We said that about Thanksgiving.” Pete is in the chair next to her, gripping a baseball bat with far too much tension. “And look what happened.”

“Still, people go out of the country at this time of year.”

Whitney leans against the desk. “So we should look out for reports of meteor freaks busting up Mexico or the Cayman Islands?”

“I don’t think we’ll have time for that.” The computer now fully active, Lana pulls her chair closer, and gains access to password-protected research files. “If only Chloe were still here. We’re only guessing at some of this. Even with all the world’s knowledge at our fingertips…”

“We’re still three kids with sticks and pepper spray,” Pete concludes bitterly. “It’s a miracle any of us are still alive.”

“We’re doing something that’s right.” Whitney has that calm, cool edge to his voice now, an edge honed by years as captain of the football team, as the leader of their motley little crimefighting group. “None of us have to be here. You could be in Wichita. Lana could be in _Paris_. But someone needs to protect this town. The Sheriff won’t even admit there’s anything wrong, and this school has the highest student mortality rate in Kansas.”

“The someone doesn’t have to be us,” Pete tells him. “What about next year? What about college?”

“There’s Central Kansas,” Lana interrupts. “And you know there’s no one else.”

A dull thud, like a snowball hitting a distant window, interrupts their conversation, and there’s the sound of glass breaking.

And then there are footsteps in the hallway.

***

There are footprints on the roof, two inches deep in the snow, leading all the way to the edge. Julian’s sneakers are leaking, and his feet are damp, but he’s not about to admit to feeling cold in the middle of such a captivating adventure. This is mortal peril, practically, and mortal peril, particularly when enacted on top of a genuine Scottish castle, is about as good as Christmas Eve could ever possibly get.

He scoops up a handful of snow, and hurls it at the ground below, where it smashes into yet more snow, and disappears with barely a sound.

“Fending off invaders? I’m sure we have some boiling oil somewhere.”

Lex is maneuvering a telescope through the door that opens onto the roof, wrapped up in a sweater, ski cap pulled low enough to reach his eyebrows. Julian sniffles a little in the cold air, watching him. “We should have a moat.”

“We have a security team,” Lex tells him, finally getting the telescope safely through, and making his way tentatively towards the edge of the roof. “They have tasers and semi-automatic weapons.”

Julian rubs his nose. “A moat would be cool though.”

Lex pushes down on his shoulder. “Sit down. I want to show you something.” And, in moments, the two of them are sitting on the edge of the roof, legs dangling, staring out over the countryside towards Smallville. Lex dusts down the telescope and checks the focus before handing it over to his brother. “Look – over there’s the Kent Farm. Remember, where we got cookies?”

“Yeah…” Julian squints into the eyepiece as the door opens once more behind them. “There’s snow on the roof. Looks like a postcard.”

He expects a reprimand from his father for sitting on the edge like this, or for even thinking of touching such an expensive telescope, but instead Lionel sits down in the space between them without a word.

Julian moves the telescope, blindly fiddling with the focus when a sudden flash from one of the larger buildings catches his attention. “What’s that?” He points, but it’s so distant to the naked eye that he doesn’t expect either of them to respond.

“The school, I believe,” Lionel tells him. “Smallville High. Quite an interesting place, if the local newspapers are to be believed. You might want to consider going there next year, Julian. Their music and languages programs are dismal, but I hear their student journalism courses are second to none.”

Julian blinks into the telescope. Never before had he even considered the idea that… that he might have a _choice_ about where to go to school. Or that his father had ever paid any attention to his writing, to his mumbled interest in it as a career. “Going there? Next year?”

Lionel brushes snowflakes from his hair. “I’m thinking of living here, come the spring. I can commute to Metropolis easily enough, and it’s about time that your brother shouldered some more managerial responsibility.”

The air is thick with words unspoken. The school is dark once again, and Julian, convinced that if he puts the telescope down the spell will be broken, moves to find another object to focus on. He finds a group of people in far-off streets, bundled up against the cold: tiny, perfect.

“Mom would have liked this,” Lex says softly, just as Julian feels their father squeeze his shoulder. “She would have liked this a lot.”

Julian leans back, letting Lionel’s arm support him, tilting the telescope up, searching the heavens for shooting stars.

He supposes it doesn’t matter too much if he never finds one.


End file.
